Uncle Jacob smiled fondly at her.
“I know there is one at least who treats me kindly for my own sake, and who would share all her laurels with me. My child, I was very proud of you to-night.”
“And I of you,” Star added, quickly. “I never saw you look so nice—so like an aristocratic old gentleman.”
He laughed, such a bright, hearty laugh that she wondered to see him so pleased over her little compliment.
“Now, good-night,” he said, rising; “I want you to be as fresh as possible to-morrow.”
He led her to the door of her room, and then, with a softly breathed “God bless you!” sought his own.
God bless you! Those words rang in Star’s ears. Was he beginning to believe in her God, after all? She hoped so—she prayed so.
But she did not go directly to bed, as he bade her; his story had strangely stirred her heart, and she could not rest until she had decided some questions that were troubling her.
She opened a drawer of her dressing-case, and taking that worn portfolio to which we have before referred from it, unlocked it, and drew forth a sealed package.
“Papa told me to wait until I was eighteen before I opened and read it,” she said, musingly; “but a few hours can make no difference, and I feel now as if I must know if he was her son, and why he never would tell me anything about his family.”